The Laces Were In - The Ray Finkle Story
by Holly Sharp
Summary: A version of Ray Finkle's story which will fill in the gaps in the movie, as well as present the movie from Finkle's point of view. The story will utilise a past/present format to relay the story, showing Finkle when he was a man and as he is as his female alter-ego, Lois Einhorn. The end of the novel will also explore what would have been had Ventura not foiled his plans.


Feburary 2nd, 1984, Collier County

He walked out onto the field, his breath visible in the cold morning air. He was alone on the grass. The solitary figure moved across the long stretch of land, and made his way toward the two goalposts situated in the middle of the field. As he moved closer to the posts, his slow walk turned into a run. His short, dark hair tousled in the wind created by his movement.

Panting and sweating in spite of the cold, the man stopped suddenly and opened a large, black bag that he had formerly slung over his shoulder. From this bag, he removed a blue and white football jersey.

He took off his white t-shirt, revealing a set of tight abs and built pecs. He pulled on the jersey over his toned, tanned body, barely able to fit his biceps through the holes of the jersey. He smiled at his problem through his bushy, black moustache.

He reached down to the bag once again. This time he took from it a small silver object. He placed this object on the ground. He then took from the bag a second object - a rounded object, coloured marone, done up the front with laces - a football. He placed the latter object on the first and moved back - he was ready to make the kick. Surveying the posts and the ball with a practiced eye, the man moved foward. The muscles on his legs gyrated as he stepped toward his goal, visible out of his white sport-shorts. Reaching the ball, he stepped in with his left foot and then made contact with his right, launching the ball toward the posts. He turned around, not even bothering to watch as the ball flew straight through the goalposts - dead centre. Finkle didn't need to watch anymore - life had taught him that, for him, success was the only outcome.

He readied another ball and repeated the procedure. This time, he watched it as he scored. He stood tall and proud.

"Life is good", he said to himself.

August 23rd, 1994, Miami

She walked out onto the field, her breath visible in the cold morning air. She was alone on the grass. The solitary figure moved across the long stretch of land, and made her way toward the two goalposts situated in the middle of the field. As she moved closer to the posts, her slow walk turned into a run. Her shoulder-length, brunette hair tousled in the wind created by her movement.

Panting and sweating in spite of the cold, the woman stopped suddenly and opened a large, white bag that she had formerly slung over her shoulder. From this bag, she removed a blue and white football jersey.

She took off her white, t-shirt, revealing a generous set of breasts barely contained in a black sportsbra, and a gorgeous flat stomach. She pulled on the jersey over her toned, tanned body. She looked down with black dismay as the exceptionally loose jersey dangled around her body.

She reached down to the bag once again. This time he took from it a small silver object. She placed this object on the ground. She then took from the bag a second object - a football. She placed the latter object on the first carefully. She watched it for a time, obsessively examining the ball from every angle.

"Laces out," she said firmly. She looked up toward the posts. She was ready. Surveying the posts and the ball with a practiced eye, the girl moved foward. The boobs on her chest gyrated with every step she took toward her goal. They threatened to fall out, but were prevented forcefully each time by the bra, which only allowed its feminine-prisoners a certain amount of freedom before enforcing its elastic-restrictions.

Reaching the ball, she stepped in with the black stiletto on her left foot and then made contact with her right, launching the ball toward the posts. She watched the ball intently as flew through the posts - dead centre. Finkle needed to watch the ball every time now, his hubristic failure during the Super Bowl ten years ago fresher in his mind than even his memories from yesterday.

He readied another ball and repeated the procedure. He watched it again as he scored. He stood tall and proud, a maniacal smile coming over his now female face.

"Die, Dan", he said to himself.


End file.
